Why do I keep running into my old gym teachers?
Saturday I went to 5:30 mass, and one of the ushers was my elementary school gym teacher, Mrs. Hauser. I haven't seen her since sixth grade. She looked exactly the same, except without the whistle. I wonder if she's still as mean as she used to be. Then tonight I was eating dinner at Chedder's with my friend Amber, and who sits down at the next booth but Coach Fritz and Assistant Coach Salines. (And by assistant coach, I mean special life partner. Really. They lived together and wore matching rings.) Coach Fritz was my tennis coach for three years (until she heartlessly cut me from the team my senior year) and my gym teacher for two semesters. She yelled at us a lot and stood with her hands in her arm pits. That's two gym teachers in two days. And that's not counting how many times I've seen my geometry teacher jog past my house with one of the art teachers. Middle-aged men + Spandex = frightening. Especially when one of them is Mr. Neff. He was the scary math teacher. We always wondered what was really in that Pepsi can he carried everywhere. And he would do things like start yelling about the Pythagorean theorem and ask us "If someone was holding a gun to your head and asked you what A Squared plus B squared equaled. What would you say?" Pantomines holding gun to a student's head. "WHAT WOULD YOU SAY?!" As a result, I was afraid of Neff Hall for most of freshman year. Okay. I'll stop rambling about former teachers now.